like blood on your hands
by Asradiantasthesun
Summary: you will never wash them clean but maybe that's okay/ spoilers for s3 ending


The girl you loved is dead and 'dead' is the heaviest word you've ever heard

/

She is still warm in your arms, she is still Allison and you can't stop holding her, you just can't let her go. She is still Allison, she is still yours.

Her dad is here but he doesn't even try to take her away from you and you want to feel grateful for that but you feel nothing at all. Just this overwhelming numbness and why why why, a litany, a never ending circle of why-s.

Why.

/

The girl you loved is dead but she can't be she just can't

/

There are many people there, but you feel that only few have the true right to mourn her like you do.

You want to feel for Lydia, who is barely standing, looking like a broken porcelain doll with smudged make up lines on her pink cheeks and eyes red from crying, unable to say anything, because she wailed for too long.

You want to feel for Isaac, who is right beside Chris Argent and who is still too shocked to cry or to grieve, he is kinda just there, and you know that right now everything that he can think of are the what ifs and possibilities lost and the guilt which swallows him whole.

You want to feel for her father who looks thirty years older than he looked two day ago and who is no longer a warrior but a broken man who buried his sister, buried his wife and right now is burring his seventeen yours old daughter. And you know that he knows that the doom of the Argent family began when they crossed the borders of Beacon Hills.

You want to feel for them, you really do, but right now you can feel for nobody but yourself.

/

The girl you loved is dead but you're not,

you feel like you are though

/

It's so ridiculous. It's hilarious. It's beyond-imagination-funny how you need to lose somebody to realize how much you lose along them.

She left her marks everywhere and when you see them it's like the slap across your face.

There are her photos still attached to the corkboard in your room and the stuffed wolf she jokingly gave you on your last birthday is still sitting on your drawer and her seat in the cafeteria is empty and she left her red nail polish in your kitchen the last time she was there and you wanted to give it back but now you can't and in your phone there are still her messages, and every smiley face and every 'i love you' and every 'see you later' is like a knife piercing your chest.

/

The girl you loved is dead period

/

And memories are dragging you down, drowning you, strangling you, no matter where you are, no matter what you do. She is hiding in the corners of your mind, always present, along with kisses and promises and beacuseiloveyou-s. You are haunted by her, you lay down on your bed every night and everything is just Allison and Allison and why.

The memories of her are killing you, but in the same time, you are so afraid you will someday lose them.

Because now you can almost fell the scent of her skin or see her figure in the crowd and you can almost imagine her lips on yours and you can almost hear her voice because you know her oh, too well. But what will happen when you forget?

Right now she is still real. She is still real, her dark hair and fair skin and dimples and her nails as red as her blood on your hands.

/

The girl you loved is dead and it's nobody's but your fault

/

If only if only if only if only

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/

The girl you love is dead, but she is not gone

/

Eventually, you start to forget.

You can't point the exact moment when it started. Was it the first time you laughed out loud, the first time you smiled genuinely, the first time you kissed Kira, you don't know.

Time is passing like a river, like a sand in the hourglass, time softens the sharp edges of the glass shattered inside you and you discover that people are blessed with one thing; they are able to move on.

You hide all of her photographs, except for one, your favorite. You throw her red nail polish away. Somebody else is now sitting on her seat. When you lay down every night, she is no longer the girl who keeps you awake.

But the wolf stays on your drawer and Lydia still walks down the hall alone and you still sometimes feel her scent, but you decide it's okay. It's okay to let go. It's okay to remember.

It's okay to have the memories of the girl who will be forever your first love and it's okay to love another girl, who is your second. It's okay to just sometimes think about her and sometimes cry because of her and visit her grave and then go to the prom with somebody else.

You know that your hands will never be anything but red. But that's fine too.

That's a way of remembering too.


End file.
